


Sire and Ivy

by soullessbrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Mating, Blood As Lube, Character Death, Crazy Castiel, Evil Castiel, Hallucinations, M/M, Mating, Painful Sex, Purgatory, Rape, Violence, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 04:58:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1927506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soullessbrothers/pseuds/soullessbrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean tries to look for Castiel as he and Benny try to survive Purgatory. When they find him, Castiel is still broken. Warped, cruel, Dean is forced to run. It's only a matter of time before Castiel finds him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sire and Ivy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daydreamerdisease](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydreamerdisease/gifts).



> Warnings for violence, gore, character death and graphic rape.

Grey sinks through his skin. He walks with Benny at his side, shoulders down, jaw tight. It aches. He sleeps because he thinks he needs it and drinks water to ease his throat. Food comes from berries that are dark in colour and bitter in taste. Benny stares at his throat, bared wrists, but slaps him on the arm and they stand back to back, side to side, when the monsters come. Out in the dark, forever too-big moon that rivals sunlight, his clothes are stiff in mud and grime and gore.

He prays every night.

There is no answer.

And so he walks.

Word of an angel comes through torture. Monster blood is as rank to Benny as the berries are to Dean, but they eat because that’s what they’re supposed to do. They trade stories and sleep in shifts under hollows of old trees. Dean doesn’t understand the leaves. Outside of eyes, they give the most colour and pretend that they are alive. When they brush against skin, the branches are living forest. Under fingers they crumble. The trees are the same as the rest, trapped in not-life, and when they die they take a stale breath to a new un-death.

The trail is long. Each copse is the same as the last. Purgatory stretches in a maze sphere, round and round until the killers are dizzy. Dean thinks that he has carved the same monsters dead twice, but with their snarled teeth and taloned hands, each last choke is the same. Sometimes he laughs. He tells Benny about prank wars and brags about Hell. Benny is supposed to laugh. He doesn’t. He frowns and softens his drawl, squeezes Dean’s arm until he’s shoved away with the promise of a new threat.

Another creature says that if they spare him, he’ll tell them where he saw the angel.

They promise.

He tells.

They lie.

Makeshift weapon cuts head from neck. They keep away from the trees and listen for water. There’s no wind. The rush of boughs is an ambush. Benny can hear farther. Dean holds his breath and watches him stare to grey sky, twist his head and think. His arm lifts, slow, and he points. A nod and they move. The slog is faster than before. Dean has destination, not fear. Castiel is alive. A monster has seen him and he is alive.

Ridge after basin and Dean thinks that he can hear the river. It’s bad tactics to keep one side pinned, so they keep it to the right and in earshot. The itch in Dean’s skin fades. Days pass, weeks. They mark time with food and sleep. That moon, enough to stark overheard, disappears. It pulls away from the atmosphere and all that Dean can feel is cold. Benny takes his coat, sodden as it is, caked as it may be, and pulls it around Dean’s shoulders. Pressed together for heat, that short respite, Benny tries to tell him that they could leave, they could be free.

“Not without Cas.”

He mumbles his prayers when he goes to piss. Not too far, Dean waits behind a tree and lets go, shakes off and wipes his hands on bracken. It doesn’t matter that Castiel is here. He looks up to imagined Heaven and begs him to be safe, to come back. Promises to save him from his captors. Says he’ll find him soon. Cries for Sam.

Castiel can’t hear him. If he had, Dean reasons, he would come. Those prayers are safe, for himself. He needs to go home.

Each day is fresh murder and more trudge. Dean and Benny march, lost soldiers that spar if the dark leaves them untouched. They pause after a day or two of silence and slip away to hide. Hours apart, they track and pounce. Dean presses a blade to Benny’s throat every time. He pulls back, offers a hand and they start again.

Then they find the stream.

Castiel is crouched at the bank. He dips his hands and wipes his face clean. Water sticks to a fresh beard and Dean strides, Benny a pace behind.

“Cas!”

Down a smaller bump in earth, Dean watches Castiel stand. Wings, great, black wings spread in warning. His coat is tattered, ripped at the collar, enough to let them move and flex. Shirt the same, the clothes are loose around his throat, hang ragged at his back.

“Dean.”

“Cas.”

A laugh and Dean ignores them. He crosses that last distance. His arms tie around Castiel’s middle. They squeeze. The wings fold back. Dean presses tight into that space, chin at Castiel’s shoulder. Feathers catch over his arms, but he rocks him, twists in place. Benny hangs behind. Dean has to let go. He grabs Castiel’s shoulders before he takes a step back and breathes him in.

“Damn, it’s good to see you,” Dean grins. “Nice peach fuzz.”

“Thank you.”

He gestures back. “You should meet somebody. This is Benny. Benny, this is Cas.”

Benny nods. “Hola.”

“How did you find me?”

“The bloody way,” Dean says. “You feeling okay?”

“You mean, am I still—?”

Castiel points to his temple and twirls his fingers. Dean grimaces.

“Yeah, if you wanna be on the nose about it, sure.”

“No. I’m perfectly sane.” He thinks. “But, then, ninety-four percent of psychotics think they’re perfectly sane, so I guess we have to ask ourselves, what is sane?”

“That’s a good question.”

Dean’s mouth curves to a smile. Benny growls. He takes a step closer and lets his eyes narrow.

“Why’d you bail on Dean?”

“Dude—”

“The way I hear it,” Benny snaps, “you two hit monster land and hot wings here took off. I figure he owes you some backstory.”

“Look, we were surrounded, okay? Some freak jumped Cas. Obviously, he kicked its ass. Right?”

Castiel pauses. “No.”

“What?”

“I ran away.”

Benny’s fists curl and Dean’s stomach bites.

“You ran away?”

“I had to.”

“That’s your excuse for leaving me with those gorilla-wolves?”

“Dean—”

Dean snarls. “You bailed out and, what, went camping? I prayed to you, Cas. Every night.”

“I know.”

“You know and you didn’t—what the Hell’s wrong with you?”

Those wings flare. “I am an angel in a land of abominations. I have been. Tainted.”

“He always speak in riddles?”

Castiel looks at Benny. He squints. Tips his head. Dean watches Castiel’s approach. The water is silent and Castiel draws every inch. Deep into Benny’s space, Dean gives a hesitant shrug and Benny keeps still. It’s slow, that rise of black. Out, wider, Castiel breathes, blinks. Makes a decision.

“As have you, Dean.”

“What?”

Dean hears the gasp first. Benny’s weapon drops. His eyes snap wide and his fangs slash down in an aborted hiss. Blood punches from his lips. Castiel steps back and Benny falls, a hole in his stomach torn open, dull red slick over Castiel’s fist. On his knees, he looks down and coughs more over his chin, his chest. It soaks to the ground, feeds it.

“Cas, no! Benny!”

Castiel is impassive.

Dean rushes to Benny’s side. Benny tries to speak, yell, but his words are red and thick. Dean holds him, lets him fall back and chokes, dampened with more blood.

“You are not his.”

“Benny, fuck, we, we gotta, Cas—”

The hand on Dean’s shoulder is cold steel and clamped hard to bone. Monsters make reflexes quick. Dean fights the instinct to force up from his knees. He drops from the grip, rolls, pounces onto his feet. One look at lightless eyes, back to a different blue, calculated angel, and he curses.

He runs.

 

 

Arm torn, Dean finds another weapon. The last was dropped when he had bolted. Hand-to-hand is no match for teeth and razors. That small knife from his boot has made little difference. Rugaru beaten, he has to slump against a tree. No escape. Benny had kept his inner map to himself to ensure their bond and Dean hadn’t pressed, been glad for companionship. Now Benny is dead and Dean is on the run. He’s given up on friendly monsters, hesitated before one kill or another to meet other fresh, southern charm, left wounded in the process. It’s his left, it’s not as serious, but he has to use his knife to whittle a needle from a stick, unravel part of his shirt to make the thread. Messy, he chides. Sam is neater, cleaner, but all he has to sterilise the cut is river-water from a lifeless plane.

He can’t die, he’s already dead.

Benny is alive, somewhere.

He starts a different search.

Caves look the same as he ducks in for the night. He kills a werewolf for its den. Before it lolls, it high-laughs that Dean is wanted, Dean is meat, an angel looks for blood.

When he shivers, he isn’t cold.

 

 

Purgatory strips the soul. Dean hasn’t dreamed since he had been dragged to the side, but he dreams now. He sees Benny spread out, arms and legs positioned wide. Castiel arranges his wrists. Dean is silent, leaden, and Castiel turns to look. His wings spread. There’s a hinted smile, a reminder of appointments kept. He gestures to the corpse and lifts his chin. Feathers arch up, a curve of primaries laced together over his head. It’s a display, open, and Dean thinks that he can see purple and green edges through the black. He wants to speak, needs to move. Castiel walks to him, slow, and wraps one hand around Dean’s upper arm. It burns where that mark used to be, a furnace over his skin.

His screams are loud enough to wake him and he curses. Echoes leave the cave. He can’t hear birds, can’t hear the creep of terrors, but they have heard and they will come.

Forced up, Dean stays bent until he escapes the darkness. Outside in the still air, he stretches to pop the air from his joints. Hisses. His arm stings. When he moves, his shirts and jacket pulls taut. It isn’t where he was cut. He has to check for injury. Panic bites. An infected wound has no cure in the grey jungle. Careful, Dean unbuttons and tugs his arm free. More burns. He jams teeth into his tongue, makes himself stay quiet.

There’s a handprint.

Over the space marked from his crawl out of the earth, the print is back in position. Angry, scarlet, it throbs and aches. Dean thumbs over the palm-shape and grimaces. Fresh, he thinks, it’s fresh.

He can escape on foot.

Not in his dreams.

 

 

“I will find you.”

Dean fears his rest. When he closes his eyes, he can see a creature burst through a barn door. He shoots at it, watches the bullets lodge between its ribs. It walks. It’s a beast in man’s clothing and he stabs it through the heart. It looks down, grabs the handle and twists it out. There’s no blood. Bobby is there, Bobby, but the creature holds out its palm and knocks him to the ground. It opens its mouth to speak and the words don’t match its lips.

“I will find you.”

 

 

In those first nights of Purgatory, Dean had played his father’s voice on repeat to remind him how to fight. He has years of experience, but the army days of teenage enthusiasm have waned. John had barked in his head, the memory starker than the truth. It had spurred him, kept plans and tactics on permanent adrenaline-high. The voice had disappeared when he found Benny.

Stretched, they muttered ideas and worked together, fluid. Less soldier and more hunter, the kills were secondary to their goal. They had laughed, sat in silence, stared up at stars that they couldn’t see.

With Benny gone, the voice is back. It’s Sam. Dean trains himself not to think too deeply. A flesh machine, he darts across the landscape. After the twentieth death and more Castiel dreams, he hears his brother.

_You’re leaving a trail, Dean._

It’s so loud that he spins and imagines that Sam is there. If he concentrates, he can see his outline. There are tears caught in his eyes and dimples that edge his smile. Dean falters. He walks towards the false image and blinks, sees nothing. He might be going mad.

_You’re not. You’re lonely and that makes sense, right? When’s the last time you talked?_

“I dunno. What’d you care?”

_Don’t you think you’d better sometimes? I mean, it might ground you, remind you what you’re doing._

“Uh huh. And then I get overheard and dead. Thanks, Sam.”

_You talked with Benny. You’re more careful than that, c’mon._

“You ain’t even real. I ain’t gonna get bitched at by a you that ain’t real.”

_It doesn’t matter,_ the Sam voice says, _because there’s a me that is real, a me that needs you, okay?_

Dean snorts. “I ain’t getting outta this one.”

_You are. Benny said there was a way out, a portal, so you’re gonna find it._

“How, exactly?”

_It would help if you actually looked._

“Real supportive there, Sammy.”

_Sue me. I’m basically you right now. Just, I dunno. Think. Talk to the monsters. You’ve got time. It’s not like you’re in some real wilderness. We don’t even know how fast time moves here._

“How long’ve I been here?”

_Uh. I dunno. You lost track._

“Awesome.”

It’s wrong to feel more content. Dean doesn’t concentrate. The voice comes and goes, a low buzz. He has to do more than survive. Those older tactics snap into position. A new blade taken from another vampire, he hacks through limbs and tortures for information. Bodies that he tears through are buried at another suggestion, covered over. In the quiet hours, Dean takes snapped branches and sweeps them over his footprints. He lets the wood streak and swish behind him to settle dirt, an extra precaution. It’s long, half-day journeys drag, but he nods to himself at the security. He mumbles, answers, mutters again to keep his mind working. Memories, monsters, those old recitals expected by John. Sometimes he repeats conversations that he once had with Sam, repeats both sides and laughs on cue. It’s safer. Between death and himself, Dean hones sharp, keeps himself prepared. Where he fails, the Sam voice speaks. It warns when he feels prickles at the base of his skull and points out half-noticed places to hide. In the not-Hell, it helps. It protects.

It doesn’t protect his dreams.

 

 

Dean is in the open. Thick wings swoop out, another wide display. Primary feathers twitch and Castiel looks down. Dean is on his back, Castiel on his feet. It’s the same. He’s frozen, heart an impossible thrum that aches over his muscles.

“I have proven myself worthy.”

It makes as much sense as Castiel’s other dream-rambles. Dean can’t answer, wouldn’t know the words, but his tongue is heavy in his mouth. One beat and Castiel’s wings shine. Light flickers over them. Dean might catch more purple, more green, hints of blue and orange in the black. He feels rotten earth under his hands and he pushes his palms against the dirt.

He can move.

It’s not a dream.

Castiel is here.

Sam screams _run._

Dean listens.

He rucks his hips to flatten his feet to the ground, elbows stabbed down. He’s not fast enough. Castiel drops, feathers splayed further apart. Knees lock down to straddle Dean’s middle and Castiel clenches fingers around his wrists.

“No,” he growls, “mine.”

“Fuck you!”

Muscles shriek as he tries to shove Castiel away. Useless, those cold eyes narrow and hold Dean firm, pin his hands into ashen leaves.

“You paraded another suitor,” Castiel hisses. “I bested him. You ran and hid to test my devotion. I have found you, as I swore. You struggle to gauge my strength. I have you. You. Are. Mine.”

Fear bleeds more adrenaline and Dean gasps, tugs at Castiel’s grasp. His wrists burn with the effort, that frenzy to escape. Castiel is stone above him, lets Dean twist and turn to try and find weakness. He doesn’t. Eyes wide, the gulp is loud, heavy. He stops.

“Okay, Cas, okay. I. You got me, I get it. You can, you can let go.”

“Not until I complete my claim.”

It’s colder, still colder. The Sam voice is silent, a gape where it’s supposed to be. Dean is alone.

“What claim? C’mon, man, with the whole Benny thing, I—”

“You will not mate with a vampire, Dean.”

He chokes. “I. Mate?”

“Your soul is brightest. I rebelled for you. I gave you everything. Other mates would acquiesce for less.”

“Whoa, Cas, that ain’t—”

“You have danced for me. You desire me.”

“Anyone that knows me knows I don’t dance for anyone.”

“And yet you danced for me.”

Castiel snaps down to force a burnt kiss over Dean’s lips. Dean growls, bites, and wings flutter. Heavy beats scatter loose stones. The wind is ice across Dean’s skin. He’s damp, spattered with rain that doesn’t come to Purgatory. Castiel bites in return. His teeth sink into Dean’s lip and he cries out. Legs free, he jabs his knees. It serves to make Castiel rock above him. Kiss over, Castiel pulls back with a bloodied mouth. There isn’t a smile, not full, not Leviathan-wide, but cracked mirror of pleased Castiel, a twisted thing that mars his face.

“Cas. This ain’t you. Don’t do this. We can, we can figure out a way, we can go home. We’ll figure this out, you and me. You don’t gotta do this. Please.”

“Purgatory is purifying,” Castiel says. “It is a realm of pure energy. You can feel both pain and pleasure here. It is neither Heaven nor Hell.”

It’s better that he talks, Dean thinks. There’s a stir at the back of his skull and Sam nods, just out of sight. He can feel that, he holds on to that.

“So, what, our bodies are just—?”

“We are alive. Our bodies have been transmuted. It would be best defined as a series of differential equations, but whilst they are real, there is a difference in the corporeal element.”

Dean tries to smile. “In English?”

“You can see my wings here. On Earth, that would be impossible unless you were already my mate.”

“I. Right.”

“My wings are essential for mating,” he explains. “When I raised you from the Pit, it would have been too soon. I needed to prove my loyalty.”

“I—”

“We have not been in Heaven together.”

“Cas—”

“And I had not expected to consummate here. I had believed that my rut would not be an appropriate time to force our mating, but you followed my scent. Your soul bears my mark. Your bones carry my name. You came when I hid myself from you and began this stage of courtship.”

He panics. “Cas, it ain’t like that. Benny found a way out, and I wasn’t gonna leave you here. You’re my, you’re my fucking best friend. Family don’t leave each other behind.”

“Did Sam explain this to you?”

Dean hesitates. He doesn’t understand. The grip around his wrists swap so that Castiel can hold both with one hand. The other cups his face, thumbs over his cheekbone. There is reverence in the touch, softer than all the others. Dean turns his head to the side and spits blood. His lip is swollen, left to ache. Castiel holds his chin and turns it back to catch his gaze. He wipes away the blood but doesn’t heal it.

“I don’t—”

“Then you are already mine in soul.”

“Please, Cas—”

“You play submissive well. I had thought that it would be difficult for you to accept the role—”

“—I ain’t fucking—”

“—but even now, you attempt to force jealousy and make me want to fulfil my claim. I am sorry, Dean.”

“You’re, you’re fucking sorry?”

“Yes,” he says, quieter. “You have yearned for our joining and I have been selfish. I listened to your words, but I did not listen to your soul. I removed our mark so I could concentrate on Heaven, on my war. I have neglected you.”

Castiel lets go of Dean’s face to twist an awkward angle back to his wing. Fingers buried in feathers, he expands and contracts, flexes until he settles back into position. His hand glistens. Dean jolts. Wings smoothed, Castiel lowers a finger to his mouth and traces it over the cut. It stings, stutters a charge through his jaw. Dean fights the urge to lick it away. It hangs heavy in place, scent bitter, a mix of sweat and dregs of holy fire.

“Fuck. You.”

Eyes narrowed, Dean will fight until he breaks, fight longer still. Castiel glares. He frees Dean’s hands to wrench his jaw open. A loud wail, unmarred by his hunter tongue, escapes. Dean batters him. His fists curl and he pounds at Castiel’s sides, his chest. There’s a strike that connects Castiel’s chin, but it knocks a knuckle in the joint, leaves him with nothing but pain and a howl that bursts through the trees. Castiel is rock, diamond, and Dean is glad that at their last strike, back in Zachariah’s quarters, Castiel had turned his head.

There is no courtesy now.

Mouth held open, the other slick hand is pushed inside Dean’s mouth. He tries to pull his tongue back towards his throat, but Castiel catches it, rubs the cooling mess across it, underneath. He coats the roof of Dean’s mouth and shoves fingers to brush Dean’s gag reflex.

“Cah—”

He wants to tense, demands another roar, but his mouth is heavy. Dean swipes out. His fists weaken. Castiel releases his jaw and arches to caress back through his wing. Dean splutters to expel the acrid taste from his mouth, that cruel trickle down his throat, but his coughs are dry.

“It is best that you relax.”

“Cash, Cah—”

“My oil will cure your fight, Dean. There is no reason to resist.”

Both hands thick with that grease, Castiel draws his fingers over Dean’s cheeks. Broad sweeps, practiced marks are added. Castiel wipes a line, then a curve. Scrawls dry into Dean’s skin. It’s weak, against his training, but he chokes. His eyes fill. Castiel rewards him with oil over the lids. He covers his mouth, his jaw, the contours of his neck.

_You can fight this. C’mon, Dean. You came back from a djinn on your own. You stopped Dick. You saved me. You can do this._

“Sah—”

The Sam voice makes it worse. Vision blurred, Dean thinks that he can see too-tall shadow cover him. He imagines defiant glare and a set line of mouth. Where his fists are open, his Sam’s are clenched.

_Don’t. Fight it. Whatever it is, he can’t do this. You can’t let him, Dean. Please, c’mon. I can’t help you, you have to do this!_

Arms limp at his sides, legs dead, Dean watches Castiel pull him free of his jacket, those wings still spread. The edges of his feathers tremble. Tiny flutters betray excitement where Castiel’s fingers are clinical. He works the buttons of Dean’s shirt, top to bottom. Dean squirms. His mind slams against his body.

“Mo’ De’ g’a mo’—”

_Right, keep doing that, you can make it, it’s poison or something and you gotta fight back, you gotta get free or he’s gonna, he’s gonna—_

Dean can’t think it.

The best that he can try is a snake of muscles to one side, to the other. Castiel murmurs. It’s low, gravelled. Enochian, Dean thinks. He bucks. His hips don’t move. He concentrates on a snap to his arm. One finger twitches.

Shirts tugged from him, his head lolls. Dean swallows. Over and over again, he swallows, one reflex that hasn’t stopped. The taste is lodged, trapped. More oil slicks down his throat. It must slither to his lungs because his breaths are measured, sleep-slow.

His jeans are next. With one button, one zip, belt gone, Castiel lifts from Dean’s torso to peel ruined denim from his hips and down his legs. Methodical, he pauses to unlace his boots. Fingers pinch at the ends of Dean’s socks. He rolls them down. A layer of cloth is left and Castiel nods.

“You will be ready soon, Dean.”

It’s a promise.

The snarl in his head translates as a whimper from his lips. Castiel is fond. He hooks his thumbs into Dean’s waistband and drags his underwear from him. He’s exposed, naked in a land of monsters. Before he thinks, he prays for the rugaru, the vampire, the wendigo and the werewolf. He wishes that he had been slower or missed his mark. He begs a God that he still doesn’t believe in to spare him this, please, please God.

“It’s in your nature to fight your destiny,” Castiel soothes. “You need to understand that I am not Michael. I am not your father. I am not God. I will give you freedom. It is mine to give.”

Another bat of wings and more oil sprays over Dean’s skin. There’s more this time, displaced by each of Castiel’s finger-digs. Castiel uses them again, finds each drop. He rubs them in, laves his attention across dipped stomach, over thick ribs. His thumbs catch over Dean’s nipples. He can’t resist. Castiel bends down to catch one between his lips. The kiss is softer, a press of skin to skin, before he licks over one traitorous peak.

“Dean.”

Nausea bites at Castiel’s moan. Lips close over the nipple and Castiel’s tongue rolls. He sucks it into his mouth. Fingers pinch at the other. He manipulates, runs careful fingers then catches with nail. One left hard, wet, Castiel swaps to the other to suckle. Damp nipple left, he stays latched as he frees himself from his trench coat and unknots his tie. Teeth graze upward. Castiel sucks a bruise against Dean’s collarbone. Button after button left to hang, his mouth marks a path up Dean’s throat. Dean swallows and Castiel catches the apple in his mouth, tracks the movement with a slide of tongue.

Shirtless, topless, Castiel clinks the belt to his trousers at their second kiss. Dean attempts to close his mouth, but Castiel eases it open with his chin. Their noses brush and he smiles. It’s soft, sure as the gentle touch of lip to lip. Quiet, wet noises at those kisses are shadowed with rustles in the dirt. Castiel kicks off his trousers, takes his boxer shorts down with them. Shoes are toed, socks kicked at the heel.

“You are beautiful,” he breathes, “and you are mine.”

The tongue in his mouth tastes more human. Dean shoves his own against it, wants to push it out, but Castiel groans.

“Patience, Dean.”

His cries are swallowed by more kisses, more of the same. Castiel sighs when he pulls back. Last kiss dropped at the side of his lips, he slides his hands underneath Dean to move him. Dean protests, has all the words, but they’re caught. His noises encourage more groans, so he stops, allows those fought tears.

It’s as he’s turned over that he sees Castiel’s cock. Not as thick as himself, longer, a pained sound escapes him. Dean wills the strength to push him away, to race into the bushes. There is none. There is fear and there is Castiel.

The hands that moved him part his legs. His knees are bent, pushed up. Left with his ass wide, hole on show, Castiel crawls to kneel between them.

“This will hurt less thanks to my oil,” he says. “I am afraid that there must be no separation of my seed and your body.”

Dean wants to laugh, a bitter, broken thing. It would be Castiel that would worry over protection, apologise that Purgatory has no condoms. The furied thought is soon snapped. The tip of Castiel’s finger strokes over Dean’s ass. It traces a pattern, more inkless sigils, before it finds the part and touches his hole. Dean wants to flinch, rip another scream, but his body is pliant, oil-drunk.

Worse, it presses. That dry finger is stiff as it breaches him. Dean glares at the dead brush. He can take discomfort. It pushes to that last knuckle, moves in shallow thrusts.

“Remember that it will soon be over, Dean. You will feel complete.”

A second finger teases beside the first. Dean’s body is relaxed. The first rocks with ease, but the second is crisp, electric. It buzzes too fast and sears inside. He wracks a sob. Face laden with more lines of tears, Castiel sighs.

“I had believed that preparation would make this easier for you. I was wrong. I apologise.”

More apologies. The fingers are pulled away and Dean thinks that it might be over, that he’s fevered in the bunker and Sam is worried. Sam is close. Sam could wipe at his brow and call Garth for an answer, a spell gone awry, a cursed object that had grazed Dean’s hand. Delirious hopes for bad dreams stretched over years could mean that he could wake to a younger Sam, a younger life, back where demons were distant threats and angels didn’t exist.

A hot, blunt head rubs over his hole.

“Cash—”

“The oil will not last forever. I will be brief.”

Nails dig into Dean’s sides and he’s wrenched from thought. It’s too much, too wide. Castiel bumps his dick against him and it slides, knocks out of position. Again, it bucks low, jabs behind Dean’s balls. Castiel growls. Held in place with one hand, Dean is allowed a whimper. Castiel uses the other to guide himself, to fuck in one brutal shove. It tears the scream free from Dean’s lungs.

If he’s heard, monsters will come. Monsters will kill. He thinks of his head on a spike, the blood from his severed neck a feast for three or more.

“Good,” Castiel grunts. “Good.”

Wings drape over Dean’s sides. Castiel arches over him. Buried inside, Dean can feel every inch of that cock, the fire that licks blood from ripped tears.

“You bled for me. Good. Good, Dean. Good.”

Dean’s fingers twitch. He tries to claw the ground. Castiel eases his first thrusts, pulls out to the head before he presses to the base. Waits. His sac is full and rests against Dean’s ass. He tries again. Blood slicks the way and he rolls his hips. Blades carve the mark of every fuck.

“Mine. Mine, Dean.”

“Cah—”

“Yes.”

Forced wide enough to take, Castiel curls feathers to stroke over Dean’s shoulders. Primaries rub the seared handprint, the tips graze his hair. The next thrust is harder. Castiel bucks, moans as he drags Dean’s hips back towards him. Too soon, he breaks into a rut. Balls slapped to skin, Dean’s cries are louder. He digs into the earth as Castiel digs under his skin.

An eternity of pants and groans cover him, oil from those wings spread over more of his arms, enough to draw itched lines over him. Rough, Castiel bruises inside and out. He fucks fast enough to slam Dean’s face into the dirt, rub skin from his shoulders and scratch his ass raw.

_Hold on, Dean. You’re gonna get through this. You’re gonna come home._

Dean looks up. Sam is there, knelt in front of him. Grim, out of reach, he swears he can smell his aftershave, taste the way back home.

_You’ve gotta be strong for me, okay? You’ve gotta just take what he’s giving you. Can you do that? Dean?_

He thinks that he nods.

_Take it for me, Dean. Take Cas’ dick to come home. Let him fuck you. You’ve been to Hell, this is easy._

Castiel grunts. He rakes blunt nails over Dean’s hips, rams inside. Over again, over, Dean can feel the sweat pour from them both, join them together.

_God, he’s gonna come inside you. He fucked you open and now he’s gonna fill you with his come, he’s screwed you raw and he’s marking you up and, god, what if he’s right? What if you’re just, I dunno, his mate or his whore or, or whatever you are now? What if—_

“Dean—”

“No, Sam!”

Liquid fire coats him when Castiel comes. He guides Dean’s legs flat and moves with him, covers him with body and wings. His cock stays until it softens, the tip just past his hole. From that angle, the first leak stings out of his ass. Runs down to damp his balls. Castiel kisses his nape.

“You will learn,” he promises. “I can take you until you learn.”

 


End file.
